The Price of Tea

The Help

Rob and I recently watched the Help and thought it was a fantastic movie. I'm happy to see it is getting a lot of props so far this "awards season." I still haven't read the book, but it's sitting in my Kindle queue. It's funny, because when I first started writing, I wanted to write a novel told from the point of view of domestic helpers in China.

It was interesting to watch the movie from the eyes of someone who has a helper or two, especially here in China. It prompted me to share a couple of Ayi stories with you.

As most of you know, we have a full-time Ayi who acts as a nanny to the twins as well as a cleaning Ayi who comes to our house 2 times a week to top-down the house. As a middle class American living abroad it has certainly been a treat to be able to afford help around the house.

When we first moved to Shanghai, a Singapore-Chinese friend/colleague of Rob's invited us to his house for dinner (lovingly prepared by Ayi). He and his wife lived in a small flat - maybe 1200 sq. feet - in Shanghai with their 1 year old daughter. They had a full-time "baby-ayi" and a full-time cooking/cleaning ayi. At the time I thought this was absurd, as many of you reading this may agree, but now I'm just so used to having domestic help that it doesn't really phase me anymore.

Anyway, we engaged in this conversation with husband and wife about how the flat is small, how can you keep the cleaner employed full-time, etc. What does she do all day?

Husband: "If she has nothing to do I create work for her."

Rob: "Like what?"

Husband: "For example I will just take all of my clothes out of my closet, throw them on the floor, tell her they look like shit and to re-iron everything in the house."

Rob (and I): Speechless.

Another story comes after we moved to Beijing. As they do every day, the twins and Ayi were playing at the clubhouse while I worked out. When I finished my workout a local Chinese woman approached me and proceeded to tell me that my Ayi "tortures" the twins both physically and verbally. Then she told me I pay her too much money and I am artificially inflating the market price. I tried to explain to her that she cares for 2 babies, and she told me I should hire another ayi so they each had their own.

Obviously I was quite shocked by the accusation. This Ayi had only been working with us for a few months but I certainly hadn't witnessed any torture. She is firm with them, which is unusual for an Ayi, but these twins are no walk in the park and need someone they can't walk all over.

We had a chat when we got home. As it turned out, my Ayi had told this woman's Ayi how much money she makes per month, which was about 700 rmb ($100) more. So this woman's Ayi asked for a 200 rmb/month raise.

Mind you, this woman lives in a 2 million dollar house and has 2 BMWs but decided it was better to lie about someone and get her fired than give her own helper a $40/month raise.

The bit about the toilet really resounded with me because our old Ayi used to live with us. For a while, she shared a bedroom with the twins (she was in a bed and they were in cribs). It was a nice room with her own private bathroom and a double bed. I figured it was better than having her sleep on a cot in the basement. One day a little girl who is from a nameless developing country (who is also used to domestic help), maybe 10 years old, was playing at our house. She asked me where the Ayi sleeps, I told her she shares a room with the twins. Her response, "Eww, that's disgusting."

Disgusting? Really?

I could go on and on, but I won't. Obviously one of the major themes in The Help revolves around race relations in the US. I can't even begin to add anything productive to that conversation. Sadly, it was what it was. It is what it is now - which certainly isn't perfect - but slowly but surely I think it is getting better.

In China, though, it is more about social class. The rich people here like to pretend it's about the economy. They don't want the serving class to make too much money because that will cause hyper-inflation and blah, blah, blah. I call bullshit to that based simply on how I've seen Ayis and Drivers treated as well as conversations I've been a part of that made my skin crawl.

I always kind of thought race relations/class relations came down to time and education. I don't know what the government is trying to do, if anything, to help the situation. And I've been here for almost 5 years and haven't seen any positive change.

It should be interesting to watch the middle class develop in China. Of course, I don't know if "they" will let it because once the middle class reaches a tipping point a few problems could surface: the goods and services here will become too expensive and manufacturing (hence money) will start to leave the country and the masses will then get a voice and won't be able to be controlled.

If I was a betting woman, I'd say they will continue to supress the masses to avoid all hell breaking loose. Any body out there have any thoughts on the matter?

 

My Life With Bruce Willis - Part 1

Well, the stomach flu hit my three girls the other day, so I only had time to finish the first part of the Bruce Willis story. I'll work on part 2 next week and get it posted asap. As always...this is rough.

***

The only person I’ve ever been mistaken for was Anthony Michael Hall’s character in the movie Sixteen Candles. You know? “Farmer Ted”.  I was 11. A few years later, after I’d “blossomed” (well, I at least started looking like a girl), a good friend of the family told me that I was the homeliest 11 year old she’d ever seen. Some friend, huh? In bad lighting and with minimal sleep I could also be confused with the character Malachai from the movie Children of the Corn: flaming red hair, which was actually styled in a mullet ca. 1988, teeth as big as a horse and the same charming personality.

I’m not so sure which one’s worse.

My handsome husband, however, gets mistaken for all kinds of different people. From a guy like Daughtry who is 10 + years his junior to Ed Harris who is 20+ years his senior.

The day we took Grace home from the hospital we overheard a little boy ask his Mom, “Is that Dr. Greene?”

Bruce Willis tops the list. And truthfully, aside from Daughtry, he probably most closely resembles Bruce Willis than any of the others. On the not so flattering end would be Scott Hamilton (which makes me chuckle every time) to the most flattering would be Brad Pitt ca. Oceans 11.

Trust me, Honey, I think you’re the “Sexiest Man Alive”, but...

Kidding aside, all of this silliness makes Rob think he has movie star good looks. I just think it’s the old stereotype: bald people (like Asians) all look alike. After being married to a bald guy and living in Asia, I personally move to dispel this stereotype from the lexicon.

***

I squatted down with a box of generic children’s acetaminophen and Children’s Tylenol in each hand trying in vain to figure out what the difference was between the two, aside from two dollars in price. Without looking up I’d asked, “Whaddyou think, Hon, should we try the generic?”

We were “on a budget”. I’d quit my job the summer before because we were “moving to China”. Unfortunately, we were still in Colorado, and by Christmas we were going broke.

To clarify, we were going broke, but not because we couldn’t afford to live on one salary. We were going broke because, as Rob said (more than once) “because I wouldn’t stop spending money.” My response to his continued harping: “Being a housewife is boring. Going to Target is fun. I can’t help myself.”

He didn’t reply so I asked again, this time looking in the direction where I thought he was standing.

Where’d he go?

Grace, who was five at the time, was crammed in the shopping cart getting smooshed by last minute supplies for our holiday trek to Key West. Willy, who was four at the time, was sitting in the cart’s seat swinging his legs and singing along with the “Little Drummer Boy”.

“Hey Kids, where’d Daddy go?” I asked.

“I think he went that way,” Grace said, pointing toward the front door. “No, I fink he went dat way,” Willy said, pointing to the pharmacy.

Oh-kay.

I threw the generic Tylenol in the cart, split the difference, and headed to the magazine section.

I took a shortcut through the baby aisle and found Rob reading diaper labels.

“Ummm. Dear, we’ve been done with diapers for two years. What are you doing? We’ve gotta get going,” I said, looking at the time on my mobile phone. “It’s already past nine. We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

We walked toward the cashier together. Rob kept looking all around like he didn’t want to be seen. “I know. I was just hiding from this group of kids who keep following me around. It’s really weird,” he said.  “Shit, here they come.” I looked back and saw a group of three giggling teenage girls. When I turned back around, Rob had already disappeared down another aisle.

Weird.

I pushed my cart to the check out collecting last minute this and thats along the way.

I unloaded the cart and once she was uncovered, I pulled Grace out of the cart and asked her to go look for her Dad.

“OK, Mommy.”

Grace scampered off in search of Rob and I finished unloading the shopping cart. I put the last of our goods on the conveyor and noticed the check out girl was giving me a weird dirty look. Her oversized, pouty lips stuck out and her eyes were squinted at me like I’d done something wrong or like she was suspicious of me.

Rob and Grace turned the corner from the women’s cosmetic section and the three giggling teenage girls followed closely behind. Rob peeked over his shoulder at them every few steps as Grace pulled him by his arm.

What the hell is going on?

“Dat bald guy yer man?” the cashier asked.

“Uh, yeah, he’s my man alright,” I said. I turned toward Rob and said, “Hey, Dear, can you pay? I don’t have any money.”

Rob approached the cashier, gave me a weird look and I whispered, “Why are you acting so weird?”

While Rob fiddled with his wallet, I stopped Willy from destroying a sponge bob Pez dispenser that he’d pinched off the shelf. The cashier nodded her head in the direction of the three girls whispered, “Dem kids think you’s Bruce Willis. You Bruce Willis?”

He put his finger to his lips and gave her a silent shush. Then he said in a lowered voice, “Uh, Yeah. My girlfriend, the kids and I are just picking up a few last minute things. We’re headed to Aspen for the holiday.”

She looked him up and down and nodded. Rob, like most men, always looks good. He’s bald, so he never has to worry about the hair issue. His casual demeanor matches his laid back attire no matter where he is. Jeans and a t-shirt and could mean he’s lounging around the house or dressed for dinner. But when he smiles and those dimples appear, people feel at ease within moments of meeting him for the first time…like they’re long lost best friends…or lovers.

Then she turned to me and frowned: frizzy red hair knotted on the top of my head, my frown line was full-on forming a perfect reservoir that connects my forehead to my nose, no makeup, raggedy old yoga pants, flip flops (even though it was about 27 degrees out and sleeting) and an old hooded sweatshirt.

 She pushed her lips out even further, squinted and shook her head as if she was thinking you ain’t no Duh-mee.

I snatched the Sponge Bob candy dispenser from Willy, returned it to its home on the shelf and thought to myself, Whatever Girlfriend, you ain’t no Duh-mee neither.

Rob collected his change, shared a big smile with his fans that were gathered around us, grabbed me with one arm around the waist and planted a big kiss square on my lips. Then we herded the kids to the exit and left the drug store trying our best not to burst out in laughter before we were out of sight.